


the truth shall be dug out of you at all costs.

by tincanspaceship



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Angst, F/F, Femslash, Flashbacks, Photographs, Tumblr Prompt, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 07:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19168183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tincanspaceship/pseuds/tincanspaceship
Summary: reflections on the women they miss, the ones they loved.





	the truth shall be dug out of you at all costs.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [m_class](https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_class/gifts).



> come say hey to me on tumblr! tincanspaceship.tumblr.com

An angry, sharp rap comes to Philippa's door, and she grumbles as she peels herself off her bed and tosses her empty glass onto an unexplored region of carpet. She adjusts her gloves as she walks, slamming the ‘open door’ button with a sort of lazy force. 

 

Gabrielle Burnham stands on the other side of the door. 

 

“Need something, Doctor?” Georgiou grumbles, accompanied by a strong gaze up at Burnham. 

 

“A drink,” she returns, staring back at the cold of Philippa's eyes. “I've heard you've got the best.” Philippa's chest tightens. 

 

Georgiou reluctantly steps aside to let her in. Gabrielle scans the room before selecting to sit on the floor, leaning against a perfectly usable chair. Philippa thumps over to her shelves and retrieves two fresh glasses. 

 

“What brings you here, Burnham,” Philippa states, bored.

 

Gabrielle stays silent and watches as Georgiou produces a suspiciously unmarked bottle and pours them both a drink that seems to shift colour from gold to deep orange, to true yellow, to red, and Burnham decides not to focus too hard on the science. 

 

“I--thank you--I need to know…” Burnham trails off, and the smell of the drink Georgiou has placed in her hand is burning her nose. She places her lips to the rim of the small glass, and drinks. 

 

It doesn't hurt more than the time her suit broke and a piece of near-molten metal flung itself into her mouth, but it's close. Georgiou seems impressed. 

 

“I see you and her aren't too different,” Georgiou says, downing her drink in a similar fashion to Gabrielle. She finally sits, thumping herself down on the carpet across from Burnham. 

 

“Me and who?” Gabrielle asks, setting her empty glass on a nearby table. 

 

“The other you. She did that too.” Georgiou picks at her nails. 

 

“Drink?”

 

“Appear. And drink,” Philippa clarifies. 

 

“What was she like?” Gabrielle prods, running her fingers up and down the carpet. 

 

“She was...she was tenacious. Persistent. She was like you, but...rock,” Philippa explains, her heart tensing. “A fighter.” 

 

“Oh?” Burnham prods, scraping at the fibres under her fingers. “How well did you know her?”

 

“I...I knew her well,” Georgiou says, vaguely. 

 

“Who was she?” Gabrielle returns, eyeing the knife on prominent display. 

 

“You. But scary.” Georgiou gestures with her hands. “And in leather.”

 

“I mean...who was she to you?”

 

“An advisor. I took care of her daughter when she died because she showed promise.” Philippa yawns. Gabrielle sees the faint shiver in her hands. 

 

“I will say this once. Let me know truthfully and exactly who you were,” Gabrielle commands, her voice dropping. 

 

Georgiou freezes.

 

“You want to know….you want to know what she was to me?” Philippa’s voice is low and quiet, almost trembling. She stands, quite suddenly, and starts ripping the frames of standard Fleet-issue photos off the walls and tossing them at Burnham’s feet. 

 

“Agent?” Gabrielle pleads, but Georgiou doesn't hear her. 

 

Philippa pries off the backs of the frames, pulling with her fingernails. Rectangles fall. Georgiou repeats this, to Gabrielle's confusion, until she is surrounded by dozens of photos. Georgiou kneels, braces herself with her arms, bows her head, and Burnham is sure she's crying. 

 

“Philippa, what are these?” Gabrielle asks, nervous. Philippa shakes her head. 

 

“ _ Look, _ ” she rasps, clenching her fists. 

 

Gabrielle flips over the nearest square. 

 

It's a photo of her. Or, rather, a photo of the other her. Her face isn't visible, only the corner of her forehead. Photo-her's hair is spread out over a pillow, and her hand is playing with a lock of shiny curls. She is  _ relaxed. _ Happy, probably. The dulled, golden sunshine of Philippa's universe makes patterns on her waves of hair. 

 

“I...I took that…after you came over for a drink. You...you stayed. I think--” Georgiou stops to take in a gulp of air. “I think that's the first.”

 

“Are these all me?” Gabrielle questions, flipping over another to find a scene of a newborn Michael, curled up in Gabrielle's arms, and with Philippa's forefinger blurry and brushing down the side of Michael's face. Gabrielle is petting the soft black hair on Michael's head. 

 

Georgiou nods. 

 

“This...you really were Michael's mother?” Gabrielle breathes. “You weren’t her…biological mother, as well?”

 

“No, no. We...I tried, to help you---help us have a daughter that would be  _ ours _ . It didn't work. My genetics saved in the database would be too easily found and used against me.” Philippa swipes at her tears, a little too aggressively. Gabrielle reaches and rubs her bicep. 

 

“It's all right. Shh, deep breath. Can you show me these?” Philippa shakes her head ‘yes’ and starts sorting through the piles. Gabrielle retracts her arm as Georgiou passes her a stack of photos. She takes them, gently, and begins rifling through them. 

 

There's a picture of her with Michael in her lap, three or four, but her head is turned away and her face blends, as if she'd jerked to the side as the photo was taken. 

 

An image of a necklace with a ring threaded through the delicate chain. It gleams around her neck, its v-shape accented by the golden robe she appears to be wearing. She subconsciously touches her sternum where the ring sits in the image. 

 

A photo of her stomach, defined muscles and the shape of her hipbones, a drape of green fabric, her shirt, falling across her ribs, the waist of her pants the same deep forest colour.

 

Her wrists, lined up, and she sees a tattoo of the angel wings on her forearms, symmetrical and gleaming. They are beautiful. She has abstained from any permanent thing on herself, but perhaps she should consider something like that.

 

Another shot of her and baby Michael, holding Michael to her chest, wrapped in a soft grey blanket. Her head is hidden as she leans down to kiss her forehead. 

 

Her feet and calves, muscles powerful, dangle off the bed and hold mid-stretch, kicked out at various angles. One set of toes point. 

 

The base of her skull, her hair pulled and slicked into a tight bun. She is almost looking over her shoulder, her hands blurred and falling as they move from her hair. 

 

Philippa and Gabrielle, curled up tightly with each other. Gabrielle must have taken this shot of her head on Philippa's shoulder, close and private, with her face exposed. 

 

One more photo. It's Gabrielle, brushing Michael's hair. The photo is from the back, but Michael's reflection is clear and solid. Gabrielle's own hair is loose and blocking her reflection. Her hands are woven into Michael’s curls.

 

Gabrielle lets the cards slip from her fingers. She tries to speak, tries to force anything out of her throat, but she ends up sitting in stunned silence.

 

These moments are not something she feels she should be looking at. They are quiet, peaceful, and something private, even if she is in them.

 

Georgiou sobs across from her. Gabrielle reaches out to comfort her, but her arms don't move at the command of her mind.

 

Gabrielle finally manages to speak, but it’s hoarse and broken and nearly intelligible.

 

“I...I see,” she murmurs. 

 

Georgiou whimpers.

 

“Hey,” Burnham coaxes. “Come here.” Philippa crawls like a wounded animal, dragging her legs. Gabrielle opens her arms and Philippa so reluctantly takes her place. Gabrielle cradles her against her torso, rocks her back and forth. 

 

“I--” Philippa starts. “I'm…”

 

“It's okay. It's okay. I need to tell you...I need to tell you about Philippa. About the other one,” Burnham whispers, pulling Georgiou so tight, compressing her, in hopes that this one finds that comforting as well.

 

“You?” Georgiou asks, the shaking of her body slowly decreasing. The hold of Gabrielle’s arms is a potent sedative.

 

“I met her when she was on spring break in her third year at the Academy. She was having lunch in a restaurant I liked, and she was in my favourite spot, so I asked if she’d mind if I joined her. She didn’t.”

 

_ Nice to meet you, Gabrielle. Where are you from? _

 

_ Korea. How about you? _

 

_ Malaysia. Are you a student? Visitor? _

 

_ I’m taking classes. I’m not joining the ‘Fleet, though. _

 

_ Fair. _

 

Georgiou drank her tea with the utmost friendliness.

 

_ What’s your track? _

 

_ Medical. And command. Some engineering. _

 

_ You’re in multiple tracks? I’ve never heard of that. What year? _

 

_ Third. It’s pretty uncommon. They make all  _ nine _ of us third-years go talk in a group about our ‘school stressors’ and ‘course load’.  _

 

_ Really? _

 

Georgiou had smirked and taken a bite of sandwich.

 

_ We usually play tag in the vents instead. Or we just break the door and go for drinks. _

 

_ Philippa, was it? _

 

_ Since we’ve talked for more than two minutes and you’re not a teacher, it’s Phil. _

 

_ Phil, third-year cadet, pleased to make your acquaintance. _

 

“I suppose we talked for a long while, because it had started to pour. My apartment was closer than her residence, so I offered to take her to my place,” Gabrielle explains, squeezing her eyes shut. 

 

_ I don't want to impose, Gabrielle.  _

 

_ No, no. I get lonely and if it comes to it, you can sleep on the couch.  _

 

_ You don't mind? _

 

_ Not at all. I baked cake yesterday, if you want it.  _

 

_ Thank you  _ so _ much.  _

 

“We didn't bring umbrellas, so we got thoroughly soaked. I let her borrow some clothes while her other ones dried, and everything was so long on her. I gave her cake.” Gabrielle tries to remember the details. “She...she sort of  _ held _ , I suppose, curled up beside me.”

 

_ You're very soft, Gabrielle.  _

 

_ Is that a compliment? _

 

_ Definitely. And strong. You're quite strong.  _

 

_ Thanks.  _

 

_ Should I...let you go? _

 

_ No! No, I...  _

 

_ Can I...can I kiss you, Gabrielle? _

 

_ Yes. Please? _

 

“Of course, she did kiss me, and I think she lived at my apartment for the next week of break. I think--what year was it? 2222? I don't quite remember. She was twenty, I was twenty-one. She was the most brilliant woman I've ever met. I think--” Gabrielle stops, and feels Georgiou’s hands twine around her waist. “I met my husband later that year. We got married three years later. Michael was born a year after that. I--I loved him, I know I  _ did _ , but sometimes I  _ wanted  _ it to be her with me instead, me and her with our daughter and our home and our  _ family _ . I wish, God, I wish that I'd sat in that closet with Michael and I'd stayed  _ now _ and told Philippa how much I loved her. I  _ loved _ her. I talked to her, occasionally, when she was planetside, we'd go out for breakfast. Later she visited Doctari Alpha and sat with us for dinner. I had so many chances to tell her.”

 

“I watched her name show up on reports and I saw her give medals and speeches and I saw her become Starfleet’s shining gem and I didn't even have the chance to speak with her. I loved her, I loved her, I loved her, and I can't tell her that to her face.” Gabrielle's voice cracks as she cries. Philippa squeezes her, trying to nestle her head into Gabrielle's neck. 

 

The frame of them holds for a strange amount of time while Gabrielle tries to recover herself. 

 

“When Michael was born, you…you were so sick. I--” Philippa's voice cracks. “You looked so  _ weak _ . You told me, in one of the rare moments when you weren't drugged, that you thought there were spikes in your chest because it hurt so bad, and your head was on fire. We had doctors looking after you, constantly, but having Michael…your body could barely take it. I remember being so scared you were going to die. You saw Michael and you held her like...like she was your saviour. And you collapsed. It…” Philippa buries her head in the crook of Gabrielle's neck. 

 

“I had to hold my newborn daughter while her mother went for surgery. It scared me. And Michael cuddled with me and I--I was worried, I was so anxious I picked my fingers until they bled, Gabrielle, I had seen you cough so hard your whole body crumpled, and I saw you put ice on your forehead because your fever was so bad, and I saw the coat of sweat you had over your skin and I knew a newborn would never survive that. I was more scared in the twelve hours I waited for the news that you were all right than I've ever been.” Philippa holds so tightly to Gabrielle she's afraid the other woman won't be able to breathe. Gabrielle strokes her hair. 

 

“Shh, shh, Philippa. When Michael was born...I was ill, feverish, but not dying. And I remember...I remember something wanted me to hold up Michael to Philippa, wanted her to say  _ ‘our daughter’  _ the way my husband did. I was foolish, Philippa, and I should have left then. I should have found her. I should have brought my baby girl and asked her if she loved me too, I should have taken my chances.” Gabrielle's words become acidic in her mouth, and her throat burns. 

 

Philippa retracts her head from Gabrielle's shoulder and stares at her face for just a moment before kissing her. 

 

Gabrielle wants so badly to let herself stop this, but this is the feeling of Philippa Georgiou, of the woman she  _ loved, loves _ right here, after her death, and even some of these clothes look like what Philippa used to wear, and she's wanted this moment for  _ thirty-five _ years. She kisses her back, salty-sweet.

 

Philippa is forceful with this kiss, her hands heavy against Gabrielle's ribs, pressing her into the floor, and Gabrielle pulls back, her arms around Philippa's waist. Gabrielle's mind feels light and strange. She tilts her head back for a heaving breath, trying to regain clarity. Philippa half-chuckles, pressing her lips to Gabrielle's jaw. 

 

Gabrielle shifts her hands to cup Philippa's face, moves her until their foreheads touch, and she closes her eyes to imagine the Philippa she knew. This Philippa indulges her for a moment, before tilting her head and pressing their lips together again. Gabrielle smiles into their kiss. 

 

“Mom?”

 

Michael stands in the doorway, her voice weak. 

 

Philippa snaps upright, pulling herself off Gabrielle and shoving herself back against a chair. Gabrielle straightens. 

 

“Michael, come here, little one,” Gabrielle prods. Michael doesn't move. Her face is still as she begins to cry.

 

“Baby girl, it's all right. It's okay. Can you come in?” Gabrielle soothes, tapping the floor beside her. Michael's mouth opens, closes, before she bolts like a wounded fawn. Gabrielle winces as the sound of Michael's running fades. 

 

“I'm sorry, Gabrielle, I--” Philippa's shoulders bend in, and her back arches. 

 

“It's okay, Philippa. It's not your fault.” Gabrielle leans forwards to cup Georgiou’s jaw, thumbing her cheekbone. Philippa jumps, and Gabrielle retracts her hand. 

 

“I'm sorry, Philippa, I should have asked,” Gabrielle apologizes. Philippa shakes her head. 

 

“I'm not--I'm not used to this. Casual intimacy. I've never--not since her…I need a moment, Gabrielle,” Philippa stumbles, and Gabrielle bows her head. 

 

“You are welcome to come find me, Philippa,” Gabrielle assures, in a careful tone. 

 

“I will. I'm sorry.”

 

Philippa peels herself off the floor and darts into the hallway. 

 

\--

 

Gabrielle arrives back at her quarters with a sigh, throwing herself onto the bed and rubbing her forehead. 

 

_ Michael, baby, please knock. _

 

Gabrielle waits for a moment until a gentle chime emanates from the table. She raises an eyebrow before noticing a large transport crate, glowing faintly blue. It chimes again, and she reluctantly peels herself off the sheets. 

 

The crate is scuffed and the creases are dusty, the letters in the Starfleet logo faded. She touches the cube, the metallic plastic cool against her fingers. Her fingertips find the year.

 

_ April 9, 2223. _

 

Gabrielle stares. She reluctantly presses the glowing button.

 

**Do you accept the last will and testament of Philippa Georgiou?** the box trills.

 

" _ Yes, _ " Gabrielle whispers, swallowing her souring throat. 

 

**Please repeat.**

 

"Yes," Gabrielle echoes, hand still hovering over the button. A hologram flickers into view, split by her fingers over the projector. 

 

_ Hey, Gabrielle. _

 

A young Philippa, uniform-clad, hair braided, stands before her.

 

_ I sort of thought you might be back this year. I know we talk, but I miss you.  _

 

_ I wanted to give you back your things. I found them last month -- guess I should have cleaned up earlier. Your jacket's in there. _

 

Philippa smiles, somewhat weakly. 

 

_ I lied. Sorry. I kept your jacket. I've worn it a few times. I  _ want _ you to come back for it, Gabrielle.  _

 

_ I suppose you might not see these for a while. To be truthful, I don't want to part with them.  _

 

_ It's time to forget, I think.  _

 

_ I assume if you're watching this, I'm gone.  _

 

Philippa rubs at her cheek.

 

_ Just know I love you, Gabrielle. Sayang-- _

 

_ \-- I'm sorry.  _

 

Philippa's refraction blinks out. 

 

Gabrielle can feel the absolute absence of emotion in herself now.

 

She lifts the box’s lid. 

 

There are photographs. 

 

Gabrielle's fingers shake as she pulls the album out of the crate. Her heart rings in her ears as she looks through the shots of younger her. She's reading her pings, she's drinking tea, she's brushing her hair, she's watching a film, and there are things she doesn't remember, her hand around a microphone, her fingers on guitar frets, her feet on the moonlit sidewalk, her cheek and Philippa's stomach. 

 

The cells in her body have replaced themselves five times since then. 

 

Her eyes blur at a picture of Philippa on the roof. 

 

The door chimes. 

 

“Enter,” she whispers. 

 

“Mom?” Michael rasps. "Can I...can I have a hug?"

 

Gabrielle nods, her head bouncing as she leaps to her feet and wraps Michael in her arms, pulling her as tight as possible. Michael sobs into her shoulder, and Gabrielle sobs into hers, and they stand in the doorway for too long. 


End file.
